Several years ago, a well-intentioned couple wrote the book When Dreams Come True, as part of the early 2000's I Kissed Dating Goodbye fad. When I read this book as a starry-eyed 16-year-old, I was overjoyed. It practically guaranteed that if I was a good girl and followed the rules, all my dreams would come true. I am now considering writing a book called When Dreams Don’t Come True.
Another one of my dreams died today. It wasn’t a big one, but it was still special to me, and the loss hurts. I remember that when Glinda sings “happy is what happens when all your dreams come true,” you can almost hear her add “right?” to the end. She doesn’t seem to believe it, but I wouldn’t know either way.
This may sound rather melodramatic, but sometimes it’s hard for me to remember how it feels to be happy. When I was younger, just being outside with a good book made me perfectly happy. I may very well be “painting pictures of Egypt and leaving out what it lacked,” but I could swear that there was a time when I was a more blissful dreamer.
Not that my life has ever been perfect, but where I am now is definitely not what I’d imagined for myself. After reading Ivanhoe, it’s hard to be content while eating my canned soup alone every night. One by one, my dreams have died over the years. Some I murdered myself; others were just the collateral damage of life.
Everyday I thank God for comedy writers and my friends who make me laugh. They all get me through each day. At the end of the day, however, those moments of lightheartedness can’t replace all my decomposed dreams. Maybe someday, some of them could still come true—but I’m not going to hold my breath for that. Life can’t be lived in the “someday,” because it’s right now.